


To Stand One's Ground

by MR_Leach



Category: Tales of Xillia
Genre: Character Study, Gaslighting, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Mild Blood, Multi, Pre-Canon, Swearing, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-13
Updated: 2021-02-12
Packaged: 2021-03-13 00:21:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,569
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29393295
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MR_Leach/pseuds/MR_Leach
Summary: Bisley turned to his father with a mild, yearning look on his still prepubescent face. He didn't remember ever suffering from night terrors before today, but the thought that none of what he'd just experienced had actually been real; that it really was just a bad nightmare after all, was a comfort he sorely wished for.
Comments: 1
Kudos: 3





	To Stand One's Ground

**Author's Note:**

> If you know me you know I'm constantly itching to talk at length about Bisley Bakur, so I decided to write a fic filling in the gaps left by the details of his backstory. And put my gay little hands all over it. Enjoy!

They found him in the school yard, about an hour and a half after everyone else had been sent home. He was first spotted by a handful of older students, loitering and playing cards on the playground.

“Was that kid always over there?”

He was on his knees, and staring down at this hands. They were numb, trembling, and most disturbingly—to him, at least—they were pristine. His heartbeat rattled loudly in his ears, his throat painfully dry with his rapid breathing. Nothing that had been real only moments ago was evident around him, anywhere. The red of spilled blood, the sound of anguished cries of pain, the heat of another body beneath his knees...it was all gone. Vanished, like a bad dream.

“Ah, hell, that's—EY, BISE! BISLEY!!”

A familiar voice called to him, but he was stuck in the moments prior, reliving the very real horror he'd just experienced.

“Leave him, Jamie, he looks high.”

“Idiot, they've been looking for him—Bise! Hey, little guy! Where the hell you been!?”

The voice moved closer to him, but Bisley wouldn't budge. He recognized the voice as belonging to his classmate, James. Normally, he'd be relieved. But James' voice only served to remind him of the atrocious act he'd just committed—the struggling, the shouting, the unfettered blows; the ripping and tearing he'd done with his bare hands. His hands that were somehow clean again, unsullied by the blood of his beloved physics teacher.

Bisley let out an anguished cry which echoed across the deserted schoolyard, so visceral and intense and seemingly out of nowhere that his schoolmate was startled enough to fall back on his rear.

“What the fuck!?” James shouted, quickly scrambling onto all fours thinking there must be some kind of threat present.

“I'M SORRY!!” Bisley screamed. “I'M SORRY, I DIDN'T WANT TO!! I DIDN'T WANT TO!!” He curled in on himself, sobbing, clutching his short, silvery hair.

“Oh my gods...” James' group of pals stared on from afar, laughing and trading looks with one another over the bizarre spectacle. James quickly admonished them.

“Hey, will you shitheads cut it out!? Something's seriously wrong!” He got to his feet, staying low to the ground as he moved closer to his classmate. “Bise...Calm down, buddy, it ain't that bad.”

“Yes it is...!” Bisley blubbered into his balled fists. “I... I killed...”

“You what!?” James' alarmed reaction caused Bisley to flinch, curling in on himself even further.

“I didn't want to!! You saw, right? You saw what happened to her! I couldn't do anything else! I...” His ramblings devolved into distressed sobs, while his classmate crouched next to him, unsure of what to do or say. The other fifteen-year-olds offered no help, either, keeping to themselves on their perch on the metal playground set. For a while, not much filled the air except for the echo of Bisley's sobs and his repeated chants of “I'm sorry...I'm sorry...”, until everyone else's attention was pulled towards the sound of several pairs of footsteps making their way across the schoolyard's tile.

“There you are.” Towering above everyone else, with his long, ashen hair slicked back, and his thick, wild eyebrows casting ominous shadows over grey eyes, a man heading an entourage of uniformed agents of the Spirius Corporation quickly made his way towards the inconsolable boy. “Bisley. Get up.” The man's stern and commanding voice was familiar to Bisley, as well, and he knew better than to disobey his father's demands. Rubbing his red, swollen eyes, and attempting to muffle the humiliating hiccuping sounds erupting from his chest, Bisley rose to his feet, choosing to stare forward rather than meet his father's intimidating gaze. James stood up straight as well, beholding the man with a look of awe. The man's identity was now dawning on him—he was looking at Atticus Aktau Bakur, the CEO of Spirius, and one of the most influential individuals in the known world.

“Are you injured?” Atticus asked his son firmly.

Bisley shook his head. His father gripped his skull with a massive hand and forcibly tilted his head around to confirm that he wasn't bleeding, before letting go of him indelicately.

“Good. Very good. Now, go to the car.”

Bisley nodded and immediately made his way towards the school gates without so much as a word, with his father's Spirius agents following him in short order. There was still an undecipherable swirl of emotions writhing within him, but he dared not show it. As he approached his family's private vehicle, which was one of roughly only a few dozen such machines that existed, he could hear his classmate James shakily address his father.

“Mr Bakur, Sir...?” His voice came out as uncharacteristically timid, and James felt the need to step back a bit when Atticus turned his attention towards him. “Uh...is, is Bisley alright? I mean, what just happened?”

Atticus stared down at James for a brief yet palpable moment. Then, to James' surprise, he gave him a wide, genuine looking smile full of straight, snow white teeth.

“Bisley will be just fine. He's just been suffering from some unexplained night terrors as of late. When we got word that he'd disappeared during class, we figured he must have dozed off at his desk and started sleepwalking.” He held out a massive hand towards James, to offer a handshake. “Are you in the same class? I have to thank you for looking after him until I got here.”

“Uh...yeah, sure.” James weakly returned the handshake, still rather star-struck. “Actually he...kinda just showed up. Are...you sure he's alright? He really freaked out.”

“I'm sure he'd appreciate your concern, but he'll be alright as soon as he remembers it was only a dream. It's possible that he may be absent from school tomorrow, though. We want to get him in to see his sleep doctor as soon as we can, after all.” Without letting go of the handshake, Atticus placed his other hand on James' shoulder. “Can I ask you to make sure your friends over there understand what happened?” He pointed with his chin towards the group of teens eavesdropping several meters away. “Don't want any false narratives floating around. You know how it is.”

James nervously swallowed his spit, and nodded his response.

“Good man.” Atticus gave his shoulder a stiff pat, then let go of his hand and turned to join his son in the car.

As the cloth-covered vehicle started its way down the road, Bisley turned to his father with a mild, yearning look on his still prepubescent face. He didn't remember ever suffering from night terrors before today, but the thought that none of what he'd just experienced had actually been real; that it really _was_ just a bad nightmare after all, was a comfort he sorely wished for.

“Was...was it really just a dream?” He asked.

Atticus stared out the window rather than looking at his son. The pause he left before his answer killed any of the hope that Bisley had built up since overhearing the conversation with James.

“We're not talking about this until we get home.” was all that Atticus offered as a response, before briefly mumbling to himself, “...This happened much sooner than anticipated...”

* * *

The doctor that came to see Bisley was not a sleep expert, but the family's regular physician. The visit wasn't anything more than a normal check-up, along with a cataloging of any bruises and bumps he had, and the taking of a few blood samples. The doctor didn't even bother to ask where he'd gotten the bruises _from_ , despite how alarming they no doubt looked, spattered under his sides, along his arms, and around his wrists and neck. Many bore the distinctive shape of human hands, and it made Bisley feel sick. He never wore his full pajamas to bed, but once the examination was over, he covered himself head to toe in silk sleepwear, as well as his housecoat for good measure. It hid the only tangible proof that any of what he'd undergone was real, and he didn't want to think about it, or what it might mean.

As he put his school clothes away, something fell from his shirt pocket and onto his bed, with a light thump. Seeing it made him recoil back violently into the doors of his armoire. The size of his fist, with the look of brushed black nickel, and the family heirloom he'd always treasured as a precious mark of his blessed heritage, Bisley's pocket watch softly ticked away the seconds against the downy duvet on his bed.

He whimpered, covering his face with his hands as the memory flashed before him of being physically restrained by an invisible force while the device flew apart, the tiny cogs, wheels, and springs soaring towards his face. He remembered the pitch black, beast-like claws that his hands had become; the same hands that beat to death and tore apart his school teacher, clawed out the blackened mechanical mess of gears that was her heart, and shattered it like glass. The memory made him direct his fear of the watch itself to his own hands, and he pried them away from his face, only to see that they were normal—they hadn't changed again. His breathing shallow, he gazed over at the bed, watching the device as closely as he could, trying not to blink in case it started to move.

He was so focused, he didn't hear the single knock that always preceded his father entering his room, and it came as a surprise to see him standing inside the doorway, staring at him. Even though he'd stayed calm the entire ride home, and throughout his check-up, Bisley's adrenaline was now through the roof, and he began to take it out on the closest thing he could.

“WHAT THE HELL IS THIS!?” He screamed, hastily picking up the pocket watch and tossing it at his father.

Atticus expertly caught the bauble in midair, quickly turning it in his hand for a gentler and more assured grip.

“It's your pocket watch.” He glanced at it only momentarily before shooting Bisley a stern look. “You were instructed to take proper care of it, not toss it around like a toy.”

His answer didn't satisfy Bisley, nor did it intimidate him. He began to find other things to throw, from his school trousers, to his shoes, to the decorative pillows on his bed.

“WHY DID YOU GIVE IT TO ME!? WHY AM I SEEING THINGS!? WHY WAS IT SO _REAL_!? WHY DO I HAVE BRUISES, STILL!?” His face turned red and his eyes became wet, and as the projectiles bounced harmlessly off his father's body, he started to look for things to throw that he hoped might hurt. He knew he was already in trouble now that he'd started throwing a tantrum, so he might as well make it worth the punishment he'd receive later. “ANSWER ME!! SAY SOMETHING, DAMN IT!!” He grabbed his physics textbook from his school bag and threw it as hard as he could. The book fluttered open as it traveled through the air, and though it hit its target, thunking against his father's head loudly, it barely made the gargantuan man flinch, even as one of the pages sliced open the skin of his forehead. There was a brief moment where Bisley thought he was free to grab more ammunition and continue, until blood started budding from the invisible cut on Atticus' face and dripped down into his hairy brow.

Bisley froze, suddenly unwilling to shout anymore. He had switched from being angry to being fearful again, and when Atticus began to move towards him, he immediately shrank. He dropped his weapon—his pencil case—and climbed over his bed, ripping up the duvet to hide under it as if it might protect him. He couldn't even plead, knowing just how badly he'd fucked up, but his instincts still forced him to attempt to mitigate the damage as he kicked at the sheets under him and pushed himself towards the backboard. Atticus kept a firm eye on him even as blood dripped out of his eyebrow and onto his lapel. Bisley could see that he was thinking, planning, and there was a possibility that just _hitting_ him might not be enough; that his father might decide to do something worse.

Instead, Atticus only made his way up the side of the bed, then carefully placed Bisley's pocket watch on top of his bedside table, underneath his lamp.

“...It's obvious you're far too immature to understand.” Atticus finally said. “I'd be wasting my breath if I told you everything now. Get your act together and stop acting like such a child; then you can learn. For now, you're to stay home and not go anywhere unattended.” Then he paused. “And take care of that, like I told you. It's more valuable than your life.”

After Atticus left his room, Bisley cried. He didn't leave his bed until it was already late into the night, and his bladder was full enough to burst. He was hungry, too, but the dark hallways of the mansion were that much more frightening to him now, and he'd rather stay in his bedroom with the lights on. He covered his pocket watch with a handkerchief so he wouldn't have to look at it, then did what he could to stay awake; escaping into his favourite story books from when he was younger until he couldn't keep his eyes open anymore. He hoped that if he did give way to sleep, he could at least dream about the fairy tales spread open across his lap, and not the nightmare that he'd supposedly dreamt before.

* * *

Bisley slept for a handful of hours, passing out with his book at first, then waking up briefly and taking off his housecoat so he could lay down proper. He forced himself to use the washroom and get dressed as soon as he could tell the sun was rising, and he became absorbed in grooming himself in front of the mirror for a while, taking far more time than he usually did to coif his hair, pluck stray hairs on his face, and search for pimples he hadn't already lanced into oblivion. When the head butler, Marvin, stopped to greet him, he took the opportunity to ask that his breakfast be brought to his room, and his room is where he stayed for the rest of the morning.

Not having anything else better to do, he picked up his physics book and started doing homework. He decided not to think about whether his teacher might be alive or dead. He just did the work and let his mind be preoccupied with mathematical equations. Bisley even allowed the maid to come in and sort his room out with him there, so long as she promised not to interrupt him. It was a little while later, in the early part of the afternoon, when he finally decided to get up from his desk, if only to stretch his legs a bit.

His father was, thankfully, at work. He thought about trying to look for his stepmother, just to say hello, but quickly realized there'd be no speaking to her without having to bring up what had happened the day before. She was a nice lady, of course, but she was more like a glorified babysitter than a mother, and no doubt she'd likely end up only making him feel worse or more confused than he was already. Before his father remarried, Bisley had heard other adults refer to her as “emotionally oblivious”, and so far he hadn't had much evidence to contest that assessment.

So, he searched for the only other social interaction he'd likely find without leaving the premises—Marvin. He wasn't really friends with the butler, and it frankly annoyed him that it was part of the man's job to always be nice to him and never say no unless it was to go against his father's wishes, but at least he could tell Marvin not to mention the incident at school and he would have to obey him. He'd probably be finishing up his lunch break by this time, which meant he could likely be found in the garden out back.

Bisley was right, and as soon as he had come outside, he could hear Marvin's voice. It sounded strange, however. Marvin usually only raised his voice to shoo off pigeons, raccoons, or other vermin that might plague the grounds, but this time, it sounded like he was shouting at a person.

“I'm telling you, young man, if you don't leave immediately, I will be forced to escort you off the premises!”

“Look, it's not that big a deal, jeez! Put that thing away will you!?”

“James!” Bisley gasped, recognizing the supposed intruder's voice immediately. He ran down the patio stairs and located the two among the thin-branched hedges next to the side of the building. To his surprise, Marvin was brandishing a weapon—a wide-bladed sword with a thick knuckle guard on the hilt, not unlike those manufactured by Spirius corp. He was pointing it at his classmate, who was halfway over the wrought iron fence that surrounded the property, and was also clearly caught on one of the decorative spikes.

“I will not tell you again! You are trespassing on private property, and I have permission to remove you by force, if necessary!” Marvin yells, his voice wavering slightly, making it a little too obvious that he was not at all accustomed to threatening violence against non-vermin interlopers.

“Holy shit, Jeeves—gimme a break!” Despite his predicament, James still had the courage to kick at the flat of Marvin's blade any time the end of it got too close.

“Stop, stop, stop!!” Bisley waved his arms and ran towards them. “Marvin, oh my gods, he's from my school!!” He thankfully managed to catch Marvin's attention, but it didn't look like he was lowering his weapon any time soon.

“Stay back, young master! You can never know where your enemies will come from!” Marvin said.

“James is NOT my enemy!” Bisley insisted, latching onto Marvin's arm to get him to lower his blade. “He can't even do long division.” he added.

“Gods, Bise, who's side are you on!?” James grunted loudly, pulling at his jacket until it finally came loose from the fence, and promptly tumbling forward into the hedges.

“The _lilacs_!!” Marvin finally re-contaminated his weapon in an effortless flash of light—something Bisley had never seen anyone but a fully fledged Spirius agent do—and quickly fished the teenager out of the branches, with Bisley's assistance.

“Damn it...calm down, it's just a bush!” James grumbled, shrugging off the butler and dusting off his clothes. “Sheesh...now I really look like a chump. There better not be any holes in this...”

“Young man, this one bush is worth more than your entire wardrobe combined!” Marvin turned his attention to said bush, fretting over the potential damage caused to it. Bisley used the opportunity to create some distance between Marvin and the two boys, pulling the taller teen along by his wrist until they were back onto the stone patio behind the mansion.

“What are you doing?” Bisley glared up at him. “If you want to fight me or something that's fine, but coming here and climbing the fence? Are you stupid?”

“Fight?” James laughed, causing Bisley to furrow his brow in confusion. “Bise, I came to check on you.”

“Don't lie.” Bisley all but tossed James' arm out of his hand and moved back.

“I'm not lying! Why do you think I'd wanna fight you, anyway?”

“Why would you come here and break in just to check on me? We're not even friends.”

“Sheesh, I dunno...” James looked down and ran his fingers through his dark brown locks. “I felt really bad, I guess. No one else in class really knows you, and what happened yesterday...I dunno man, it freaked me out pretty bad. I wanted to know if you were doing okay.”

Bisley tensed up hearing James mention the effect yesterday had on him, but he quickly shoved the feeling aside.

“Did you _have_ to climb over the fence and scare the butler?” He asked.

“He wouldn't let me in the front way.”

Bisley had to force himself not to laugh. “...Also, isn't school still in session?”

That prompted James to sigh and roll his eyes. He grinned sheepishly. “I uh....maybe was lookin' for an excuse to skip Ms. Frieburg's class...cause I kinda didn't do the homework.” James glanced back to Bisley to see his reaction, and when he got a rather shocked look in return, it instantly put him on the defensive. “Hey, I was worried about _you_ all night, okay!? I couldn't concentrate--”

“Is Ms. Frieburg really okay?! She came into school today?!” Bisley suddenly grabbed James by his sleeves and wouldn't let go, even when the action made him step back nervously.

“Uh...yeah, I think so? My sister has her for math in the morning...why?” James blinked, then took in a breath when he remembered. “Did she get hurt in your dream or something? Your old man said you were havin' nightmares or some shit.”

Bisley hesitated. He had no idea how to convey to James just how convinced he was that what he had experienced was real without sounding childish. Sadly, as he looked back at his classmate, he could already see that James was probably coming to the conclusion that Bisley was just a kid who just had a scary dream and was too stupid to tell what was real and what wasn't. It made him feel heavy, and suddenly he didn't want to say anything at all.

“...Uh. It's okay if you're embarrassed. You don't gotta talk about it if you don't wanna.” James offered.

Bisley looked away, feeling humiliated. “...Please don't treat me like a little kid, I'm only two years younger than you.”

James blinked incredulously. “...Huh? What'd I say!?”

“Young Master,” Marvin was back, and none too pleased that James had not left yet. “if you want me to remove him, please, all you need to do is ask.”

“Not you again.” James scoffed. “Piss off! Me an' Bise are try'na hang.”

“We are not.” Despite himself, Bisley half-laughed. “You're just being weird. You don't even like me. You only ever talk to me in class to try and copy my homework.”

“Yeah, and you always say no, 'cause otherwise I won't learn anything! My man Bise, always looking out for my education!”

“Shut up! You're so annoying!” Bisely was fully laughing through his words, now. “And who even said you can call me that? I absolutely don't remember allowing it.”

“It's my special name for you!” James beamed. “Anyway, what have you been doing all day? You probably got lots of stuff going on here, I bet.”

“Uh...I've been doing my physics homework.”

James scrunched up his entire face. “Gross! Bise, there's something wrong with you. You should be goofing off! Don't you got any videogames or something?”

Bisley laughed again, finally giving in. Maybe James was just here to show him pity, but he was at least determined enough about it that it made it feel marginally less insulting. It definitely worried Marvin to allow James to stay, most likely because having a strange kid enter the property would probably irk his father. Bisley decided to compromise with him by promising they wouldn't go inside the manor.

He was actually pleasantly surprised when they managed to really get along, for the most part. Despite having little in common in terms of their interests at school, their upbringing, and their mannerisms, Bisley found James easy to talk to. James would fidget and pace and get animated while he talked, and Bisley found himself watching him, paying careful attention to his ramblings, tossing in hints whenever he got stuck on a word or couldn't remember the name of something. He didn't have to be nice, either, sometimes stopping James to take a jab at him here or there, and James would just play off of it, lean into the mean words or even throw them back in Bisley's face. Most of the frustrations that Bisley had had with trying to integrate into a higher grade was that, even though he was academically on the same level as his peers, many of them still looked down on him for being smaller; younger. When he spoke to James, however, it almost felt like they were on equal ground. When he bragged about his greater experience or teased Bisley for his stature, there was always a wink or a nudge to follow. Similarly, Bisley felt less compelled to one-up James with his level of knowledge like he would with other students in his class. If anything, it was more fun to just use it to add to the conversation, or to hear James' thoughts on the myriad of trivia he had stored in his mind.

Neither of them even noticed how much time had passed until Marvin came out to the front garden to bring them both something to eat.

“Wait, is class over, then?” James had been lying on the grass in front of the bench where Bisley sat, and when he sat up to take a sandwich from Marvin's platter, the back of his hair refused to fall all the way back into place. Bisley snorted.

“Let me see...” Bisley reached into his shirt pocket, forgetting that he'd left his pocket watch in his room. “Ah,” He wondered why for a brief moment, and then when his memory caught up with him, his stomach tightened.

“It is 4:45 pm, Mister James. I believe your school let out just over an hour ago.” Marvin read the time from his own wrist watch.

“Ah shit!” James clambered to his feet, the sudden exclamation pulling Bisley away from his thoughts. “Man, mom's gonna scream at me! I'm supposed to tell my sister where I am if I stay out after school.”

“Just call her on your GHS.” Bisley said.

“Oh yeah, sure! Very funny, Bise!” James replied sarcastically. Bisley was well aware that most families could not afford one GHS, let alone one for each family member, and he grinned as James flipped him off. “...I gotta go. Same time tomorrow?”

“Not if you want to pass physics.” Bisley warned. James rolled his eyes again and shrugged his shoulders.

“Okay, damn! I'll come by after school. You happy?”

Bisley smiled. “You hear that, Marvin? I'll be expecting him, so no swinging your sword at him, ok?”

“...I'll try to remember, young master Bisley.” Marvin blushed, then excused himself before heading back indoors.

“Later Bise! Take care, man!” James waved as he hurried off, leaving Bisley in the front garden on his own. He was able to watch him run down the avenue for only a few more seconds, and once he was out of sight, Bisley's hand moved magnetically to his shirt pocket. He pressed down on it, feeling the lack of obstruction between his hand and his chest. His heart was beating fast, he noticed. It also felt unbearably heavy.


End file.
